Being a random register of long-held private country houses not generally open to the public

Very quietly late last year the curtain came down on one of the more contentious country house sagas of recent times. For November saw the publication of Historic England’s Heritage At Risk register2018 wherein, for the first time in the twenty-year history of this survey, the Barrington Park estate, near Burford ‘in the heart of the Cotswolds’, was nowhere to be found. The complete lack of fanfare around this milestone moment stands in stark contrast to the hullabaloo of earlier years, debate not confined to the specialist heritage media (↓) but which would spill out into the columns of the national press.

’The strange case of the squire who lets a village die’ ran the headline atop a multi-page feature in the Sunday Times magazine as far back as July of 1977: ‘Charles Wingfield lives in a mansion behind three miles of wall. His behaviour is not just strange, it is scandalous,’ the article thundered.1 At this time the main focus of concern was the conspicuous neglect of the buildings comprising Great Barrington village, half of which were then empty, ‘some virtually rubble’. But the attention of architectural conservationists soon turned to the fate of the equally imperilled ‘big house’, Palladian Barrington Park, the property of this family – like everything else hereabouts – since 1735.

In an unhelpful twist, however, the cause of this lobby was compromised to some degree by conflicting agendas.

see: Historic England

The original 18th-century core of the Grade l-listed mansion was the natural priority of the Georgian Group, ultimately at the expense of its 19th-century wings which the Victorian Society felt duty-bound to defend. Charles Wingfield was insistent he could not afford to fully restore both; he was equally adamant that, while nothing would be sold, ‘his family would not accept grants to restore Barrington Park because that would entail giving public access’.2 Indeed, this determination to maintain privacy had seen off many an interested enquirer.

‘I was refused admittance,’ records historian the late John Julius Norwich in his 1980s compendium, The architecture of southern England: ‘Visitors asking to see the house do so at their peril,’ he warned.3 One person who did manage to gain access, a decade on, was inveterate country house connoisseur James Lees-Milne, a pivotal figure in the evolution of the National Trust, and legendary piquant diarist.

‘Friday 20 Sept 1996: A fascinating experience today, reminding me of my wartime visits to remote country houses and harassed owners. We were greeted in the courtyard by young Richard [Wingfield], his parents and their architect. The whole house draped with plastic sheets under scaffolding, so exterior cannot be seen. The parents live in darkness relieved by an occasional one-horse-power electric bulb. The hall looks more or less intact, but the rest of the 1735 core as well as the Victorian wings in appalling condition. Given tea in large Drawing Room. Long talk with Mrs, a charming, gentle woman who is clearly at sea and has long since thrown up the sponge. In all my days of country house visiting I don’t remember a case more tragic than Barrington. The scenario of a Russian novel.’4

Rather more prosaically, within days of that diary entry the fate of the house at Barrington Park would be the subject of a formal public inquiry, Secretary of State John Prescott later upholding the local council’s denial of permission to demolish the wings. With (present owner) Richard Wingfield also asserting ‘as an absolute principle I would not allow people into the house’, the ensuing logistical impasse would not begin to be resolved for another decade.2

The family were not entirely without sympathy in their approach. ’No wonder the Wingfields have no desire to accept cash from the taxpayer, and allow taxpayers to stride through their home as if they owned to place, scattering sweet papers and copies of the Daily Mirror,’ wrote journalist and gleeful provocateur Auberon Waugh (son of Evelyn).5 And this was by no means the first time that occupants of Barrington Park had become the talk of the chattering classes. For no sooner had the house been ‘finished and fitted up’ in the mid-18th century than it became a bargaining chip in the fallout from a sensational scandal involving the most prominent aristocrat in the county.

*

Presaging the experience of latter-day scholars, in the course of researching his weighty series TheLives of the Lord Chancellors, 19th-century biographer and politician John Lord Campbell encountered unexpected hinderance in researching the final chapters of Volume Four.

British Museum

‘I have had the freest communication of family papers during the whole course of my biographical labours, with [this] single exception,’ he observed in a pointed footnote. The subject at hand was Charles Talbot (r), Lord Chancellor 1733-37 and great-grandfather of the uncooperative 3rd Baron Dynevor, of Barrington Park. ‘Lord Dynevor is in possession of all of the Chancellor’s papers, but declines us any use to be made of them, which seems to me very strange as I am sure that nothing can appear among them that would not be for the honour of his ancestor.’

An ancestor universally honoured at Talbot’s untimely death in 1737 when ‘the political parties on both sides vied with each other in his praise’6, his demise prompting Alexander Pope to elegise:

At Barrington shall English bounty stand
And Hensol’s honour never leave the land

The lawyer son of the bishop of Durham, becoming MP for that city, by the mid-1720s Talbot was combining his role as Solicitor-General with a thriving private practice supposedly generating ‘the enormous fee income of £7,500 a year’.7 But his association with the two estates cited by Pope would have rather more to do with advantageous wedlock than well-earned wealth.

see: Hitched

In 1708 Charles had married Cecil Matthews (d.1720), heiress of the Hensol Castle estate in Glamorgan, which house (left) he would significantly remodel c.1735. The zenith of Talbot’s professional ascendancy had arrived in November 1733 with his appointment as Lord Chancellor, being raised to the peerage as the 1st Baron Talbot of Hensol. But only two months earlier he had suffered the loss of his eldest son, Charles, not long returned from an edifying two-year Grand Tour under the sponsored tutelage of poet James Thomson (‘Rule, Britannia!‘). Step forward second son, William, fresh from the pursuit of rather more earthly pleasures down in deepest south Wales.

‘We are well informed that in the environs of Hensol, in Glamorganshire, some striking features of his lordship may be traced in several young men and women of that neighbourhood,’ Town & Country Magazine would scurrilously report many years later in surveying the rakish exploits of William, (by now) first Earl Talbot.8 His early servant-girl dalliances behind him, Charles’ new heir attempted settling down to conventional married life – but it didn’t last long.

In 1734, seven days after his 24th birthday, Lord Chancellor Talbot’s eldest surviving son was elected MP for Glamorgan; three months earlier, another strategic arrangement had seen his marriage to 15-year-old Mary de Cardonnel, sole heiress of wealthy former Secretary of State for War, Adam de Cardonnel (d.1719), at St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. Likely with an eye to the happy couple’s future, Talbot pere quickly invested a goodly portion of his young daughter-in-law’s matrimonial booty in some prime Gloucestershire real estate.

Since 1553 the manor of Great Barrington had been held by the Bray family who had expanded the manor house and developed its formal grounds (as captured by Kip in 1712, right). But, whatever the Talbots’ thoughts on their new property, within a year of its purchase fate would force their hand. ‘My Lord Chancellor has a pretty place about 12 miles off, but a sad house, and finds himself oblig’d to build,’ wrote Lord Bathurst (of Cirencester Park) to the Earl of Strafford in September, 1736, being reference to a recent damaging blaze. ‘He has not begun yet,’ Bathurst continued, ‘he has very good stone near him but .. it is such a kind of place which .. can’t possibly make a noble seat, but it may be made a pretty thing.’

see: Georgian Prints

Which was, it transpired, quite a prescient call since any notions of vaulting architectural ambition were foregone in favour of what was ‘essentially a Palladian villa, more usually associated with a residence near a town than a principal landed seat’.9 Stylistic details both inside and out at Barrington have long caused suggestion of the hand of William Kent to linger: ‘Were the Tapestry Room’s owl-crested mirror in Chiswick House, Kent’s authority would never be questioned,’ while abandoned entrance gate piers a mile from the house (now overgrown beside the A40) are also ‘thoroughly Kentian’.10 However, ‘there seems good reason to credit Francis Smith of Warwick with a design as refined, elegant and correct as anything by his more famous contemporaries’.11

see source

see source

The curious contrast between the five-bay arrangement of the S front and the entrance side where coupled pilasters define just three (r) has been attributed to an internal plan which betrayed Smith’s relative unfamiliarity with the smaller, villa scale.11

But while the construction of Barrington had been initiated by Lord Talbot and Francis Smith, the house would have to be completed by their sons, William and William. For Smith died in 1738, a year after the unexpected death (‘to the great misfortune of his Country’) of his client the 52-year-old Lord Chancellor, at the town house he had built in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Talbot may have missed out on the culmination of the Gloucestershire project but he would at least be spared the mortification of the events which would soon overtake its intended occupants.

The now exceedingly well-set 2nd Lord Talbot of Hensol and his still-teenaged wife were by this time the parents of a daughter, Cecil, and in 1739 Mary bore William a son and heir (who would die in infancy). But the second birth had been difficult and her husband would later claim ‘the midwife had told him that if she had any more children it would kill her’. Being thus ‘deprived of her sexual services’, the lusty lord soon returned to his old ways.12

see: Geni

Some forty miles south-west of Barrington Park, at the opposite end of the county, lies the mighty Badminton Estate, seat of the dukes of Beaufort. At this time the ten-year marriage of Henry, the ‘sickly’ 3rd duke and his wife, heiress Frances Scudamore, was childless and strained. William Talbot (r) would encounter the duchess early in 1740. ‘She was looking primarily for love, he for a sexual partner, and they were both of them young, healthy, self-centered and reckless. They were made for each other. Within months of their first meeting they had become lovers.’12

Regular assignations in London ensued, the couple’s initial concern for secrecy quickly giving way to incaution. For one out-of-town rendezvous the duchess and her groom rode to a rural location where Talbot was waiting with his self-driven chaise. Though the groom had repaired to a respectful distance, all would soon be revealed to him when the back of the carriage came apart, so vigorous was the activity therein. Payoffs and promises for him and other members of the duchess’s staff kept the lid on the affair for a while, but an eventually suspicious duke could always offer more. The dirty linen would be aired during Beaufort’s excruciatingly public divorce proceedings in 1742.12

Meanwhile, back at Barrington Park blameless Mary, Lady Talbot was naturally distraught as the affair unravelled. But she appears initially to have entertained hopes that all might not be over between her and her wayward husband, that an informal trial separation might help.

‘He can come down and visit me two or three days out of a week. When [it] is over, if we like living together we can, if we don’t I shall in some measure have weaned myself.’13

see: National Trust

But Talbot insisted he would continue to see the duchess, and Mary was advised that unless formal terms of separation were negotiated she might lose everything. ‘I cannot bring myself to part from him and yet to have my very cloathes seized seems horrible,’ she wrote to a friend. And so, while declaring that ‘this separation seems like tearing my soul from body’, her future, and that of Barrington itself, would at last be decided:

‘My Lord has come into settling upon me…either £3,000 per annum clear, or the Barrington Estate with one thousand clear which I chuse.’‘13

Seemingly an act of self-affirmation, Mary’s likeness would be painted by leading portraitist Allan Ramsay in 1742.

Unsurprisingly, the bloom would soon come off Lord Talbot’s affair and he moved on – and on. As Horace Walpole noted, ‘the Duchess of Beaufort was not the only woman of fashion who lived openly with him as his mistress. Strong, well-made and very comely but with no air, he had some wit, and a tincture of disordered understanding,’ but was thought over-promoted when made High Steward of the royal household (being a favourite of the Princess of Wales), also created Earl Talbot, in 1761.

His public image would take a knock the following year, however, when The North Briton newspaper’s ridicule of Talbot’s conduct at the coronation of George III resulted in a preposterous duel with its author, radical journalist John Wilkes, in the garden of the Red Lion pub in Bagshot, Surrey (r).

In the calmer waters of the Windrush Valley, meanwhile, newly-separated Lady Mary would settle into her responsibilities at Barrington, and raising the couple’s daughter. ‘To be sure a landed estate requires great care,’ she had recognized when deliberating her settlement options, ‘but it would likewise prove perhaps an amusement.’ A rather expensive and somewhat hazardous amusement, she would before long discover.13

‘4 Aug, 1744: I am at present disabled by a pain in my arm, which I have caught by standing amongst my workmen, of which I still have a great many all at my own expense, and a monstrous one it has been to me. Yet where I have spent one shilling for ornament, I have spent two guineas for use, and yet there is still a great deal to do. But nobody that saw the place last year would know it again this.”13

The development of the park at Barrington was the focus of much of Lady Talbot’s attention in these early years as solo chatelaine (de Cardonnel family property in Hampshire and elsewhere now being sold to bolster funds). Pleasure grounds ‘of around 120 hectares’ encompassed a circuitous walk punctuated by strategically sited seats and classical structures offering arcadian vistas, or repose [details]. Some decades on, the maturing beauty of Barrington Park would be celebrated in a new engraving for which Lady Talbot paid artist Thomas Bonner £35 in 1778.

(The following year this picture would be published in Rudder’s New history of Gloucestershire whereafter it was promptly ripped off by Westminster Magazine. Claiming copyright infringement and £1,000 in damages, Thomas Bonner sued the proprietors of the 5,000-circulation current affairs monthly who admitted in court that their indifferent copy had “disgraced” their April 1780 edition, circulation of which had been halted. The case was thrown out on a technicality but back issues would instead feature a miscaptioned illustration of Brancepeth Castle, Durham.)

see: The Frick Collection

Also in 1780, and less than two years before his death, Earl Talbot, 2nd Baron Talbot of Hensol would be granted an outwardly superfluous third peerage named for a place with which he had no direct association. But with his existing titles and Hensol Castle entailed upon a male heir (his nephew), and Barrington Park the property of his estranged wife, William lacked a suitably significant legacy to impart to his only (legitimate) child. Cecil – painted (r) by Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1762 – had in fact already made good on missing out on a Welsh estate having married the heir to another, George Rice of Dynevor, Carmarthenshire.

So it was that Talbot now became additionally ennobled 1st Baron Dynevor, with specific remainder to his daughter who duly succeeded as Baroness in her own right in 1782.

Following the example of her mother at Barrington, Lady Cecil was much involved in development of the parkland around Newton House at Dynevor (little-altered today) and, after George’s death in 1779, ‘successfully managed the estate alone’. Countess Talbot died in 1787, her daughter only five years later whereupon Cecil’s son George Talbot Rice succeeded to the family estates as 3rd Baron Dynevor. His marriage to a daughter of the 1st Viscount Sydney produced seven surviving children: a son, George, and six spinster daughters, the latter remaining together their entire lives, and comprising a remarkable household at Barrington.

see: Bedfordshire Archives

Reassuring its readers in November 1849, The Welshman & General Advertiser was happy to ‘unhesitatingly assert .. that Lord Dynevor was in perfect health on Monday last, at Barrington Park’, and was definitely not dead, as The Times had erroneously reported three days earlier.14 The London newspaper had jumped the gun by two-and-a-half years; having already inherited (from a cousin) the Trevor estates of Bromham, Bedfordshire (r) and Glynde in Sussex, son George, 4th Lord Dynevor…

… could easily continue to accommodate his sisters in Gloucestershire. During their brother’s lifetime, Frances, Cecil, Harriet, Caroline, Katherine and Maria Rice all lived together at Barrington Park, taking responsibility for the estate’s villagers seriously. ‘One of the ladies was in their Barrington school every morning, and if any [neighbouring] Taynton child should be absent, one or other of them would cover the mile and a half, each way, to be informed of the reason. There are working people in the district who look back to this time as an El Dorado.’15

see: ME Wynn & Co.

This benevolent (feudal) idyll was interrupted in 1869 when George died. Having fathered only daughters, the Dynevor title and lands now passed to a cousin, Rev. Francis Rice, while Barrington was placed in trust for his then 19-year-old grandson, Edward Wingfield. The Rice sisters relocated en masse to Matson (r), a Gloucester house offered by their cousin, Lord Sydney, and would continue to fund good works locally.

Somewhat ironically, this mass exodus ushered in the first significant expansion of the house at Barrington Park.

Historic England

Historic England

Plainly anticipating a sizeable brood, Barrington’s freshly married new young squire Edward Wingfield commissioned substantial east and west wings from architect J. Macvicar Anderson. His designs – ‘remarkably tactful’9 or ‘overweening’16, according to taste – were apparently ‘not executed until the 1880s’17 (by which time Anderson’s clients had produced seven children). The entrance front would also gain a de rigueur porte-cochere at this time (left).

Mervyn Wingfield succeeded in 1901 but in contrast to his father’s optimistic expansionism, Wingfield’s fifty-year tenure was clouded by vicissitudes which afflicted many a landed estate in his time, introducing an air of retrenchment which was to characterise Barrington Park throughout the 20th century. The agricultural depression post-WWI prompted the sale of several farms and many small properties; income and investments took a further significant hit in the financial crash of 1931.

Giving evidence at a rates appeal in 1934 Col. Wingfield revealed the state of gloom by then already besetting the mansion at Barrington Park. ‘There were many rooms, in particular [former] servants’ rooms, which were dilapidated and unfit for habitation. The domestic quarters were in a semi-basement, nineteen steps below ground level and were dark, dreary and damp.’18

see: BFI [video]

Death duties and a spiralling maintenance bill would be the sobering inheritance of eldest surviving son Charles in 1952. As the estate workforce steadily dwindled, a reluctance to sell or let village properties to outsiders (see video, left) contributed to the conspicuous decline of Great Barrington which would eventually bring concerned council officials – and the national news media – to his door.

*

“A house the size of Barrington Park, with or without extensions, is never going to be practical for family life, is it? Whatever you do, aren’t you still going to have the problem of not wanting to watch ‘Neighbours’ in the Tapestry Room, or the Georgian hall?“2

So suggested uncomprehending counsel for Cotswold planning authority to present owner Richard Wingfield at the 1996 public inquiry into the proposed demolition of Barrington’s 19th century extensions. Restoration of the latter in addition to the house’s original core would increase costs by at least 50%, a burden the determinedly self-financing Wingfields insisted they could not then entertain. Years of stalemate ensued (though thorough repair of Great Barrington village was under way).

Fast-forward to 2010 and approval is granted for the renovation and discreet modernisation of Barrington Park in its entirety, ‘Mr and Mrs Wingfield [having] reconsidered their own plans for the use of the house’ following the death of Charles Wingfield in 2007. Planning officials now welcomed ‘the attention to detail and sympathetic approach to the repair of this important building’ under the continuing supervision of architects Inskip+Jenkins (who were also busy with their well-received restoration of Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill at this time).

see: Sinclair Johnston

The comprehensive scheme of works included: complete re-roofing; repair and restoration of the 18th-century interiors, ‘bringing the important reception rooms with their outstanding contents back into use’; refurbishment and repurposing of the wing interiors to provide ‘a convenient family house for the 21st century’ (complete with passenger lift).17

see: Civic Security

Removal of the Victorian porte-cochere has returned the entrance front to its original form, the Georgian Venetian door arrangement once more revealed, while the salvaged stone steps (stored since 1882) reinstate ‘the generous approach which related the original house to the parkland’.17

see: Historic England

see: Collin West

Parkland wherein the Grade II* dovecote and temples (‘of considerable inventiveness’), and other C18th structures, about which there was similarly ‘serious cause for concern’, have now also been removed from the At Risk Register.19

At least one of these buildings, like the house itself, can be seen from a distance, the Barrington Park Estate being ‘unfortunately NOT open to the public’. Fully organic since 1995, the 5,000-acre traditional farming enterprise is now “heavily into” the Environmental Stewardship scheme promoted by Defra/Natural England whereby farmers and landowners ‘are paid for effectively managing their land in a manner which protects and enhances the environment and wildlife’.

Recording the forlorn scene he had encountered at Barrington Park back in 1996, James Lees-Milne foresaw ‘absolutely no alternative to demolition of the Anderson additions in order to preserve the Kentian villa. The family are asking for no financial assistance, and would be unable to live in the present house, were it to be reinstated’. Little could he have imagined that the chorus of concern in his time would be confounded, the ‘Russian novel’ having contrived something akin to a fairytale ending…

For centuries, indeed back to the Domesday survey and beyond, the settlement immediately to the south of the city of Cambridge has rejoiced in the heartiest of English place-names. Lately, however, it would seem that the characterful charm of ‘Trumpington’ has been found a tad wanting by 21st-century developers (or ‘place-makers’, if you will) who have been busy rebranding this expanding community.

see: Dezeen

’Welcome to Aura..an excellent choice of homes for any lifestyle, elegantly placed within tree-lined avenues, surrounded by green open spaces’

‘The houses at Novo are arranged in a traditional village-style layout of attractiveavenues, courtyards and mews’

‘Halo provides the perfect location for City living whilst being far enough away to avoid the hustle and bustle in everyday life’

Outside of London few places have felt the pressure for development as much as Cambridge, its university and allied innovative Science Park driving the regional economy and the demand for property. In 2006 the city council made the strategic decision to loosen a few notches in the protective Green Belt which has ringed the city since the mid-1960s, identifying southerly Trumpington as the locus for new development.

‘Seven Acres is our stake in Great Kneighton, Trumpington – Cambridge’s new garden suburb,’ says Danish builder Skanska about its share of the 2,300-house scheme, ‘Great Kneighton‘ being the encompassing designation (‘inappropriate and historically inaccurate’ in the view of some) adopted by the lead developer, Countryside Properties. But all of this is merely the latest – albeit most dramatic – chapter in a process of expansion here which began in earnest in the last decades of the 19th century when ‘the Pemberton family of Trumpington Hall began to sell off plots for building on long leases’.

see: Cambridge City Council

‘Attached to these leases were covenants ensuring high quality design and spacious building plots.’ Compulsory purchase orders hastened the development of higher density housing after the 1923 redrawing of the Cambridge city boundary which captured the ancestral seat of Trumpington’s principal landowner. But in the C21 the Pemberton Estate once again embraced proactive involvement.

‘In 2002 Countryside Properties entered into an option agreement with the Pemberton Trust. Following adoption of the Local Plan in 2006, and allocation of the [land] for development,’ Countryside acquired a 160-acre site ‘for an unconfirmed sum‘. Planning permission for the first tranche of housing was finally gained in 2010, Glebe Farm subsequently becoming the ‘Novo‘ element of Great Kneighton. (‘Around Cambridge, agricultural land with no planning permission was worth around £18,500 a hectare in 2010; residential land was worth £2.9m.’)

see: Google Maps

“We chose to undertake a number of important schemes with Countryside Properties in the Cambridge Southern Fringe” said Richard Pemberton, director of Trumpington Farm Company, the Pemberton Trustees retaining an interest in such as the Cambridge Biomedical Campus, which ‘is on track to becoming one of the leading biomedical centres in the world by 2020’.

Meanwhile, a world away from from such remorseless ‘progress’, behind screening trees at the end of a drive extending east from the family-sponsored Eric Gill war memorial on the High Street, always-private Trumpington Hall (↑) remains at the heart of a 1,300 hectare agricultural estate. ‘With its attractive park, this dignified mansion is an astonishing survival’ inside Cambridge city limits.1

see: Google Maps

*

The oldest family landholding in Cambridgeshire (just ahead of the Jenyns of Bottisham Hall) was established with the purchase of one thousand Trumpington acres for a thousand golden guineas by barrister Francis Pemberton in 1675. It was altogether a landmark twelve months for Pemberton who gained a knighthood and also his firstborn son that same year. Less pleasantly, his legal role would also result in a brief period of incarceration in Westminster, being ‘the innocent victim of an absurd quarrel about privilege between the two houses of parliament’.2

Indeed, for someone who would eventually occupy the highest judicial office in the land, the life and times of Sir Francis Pemberton included a surprising amount of time behind bars. Born to advantage in St. Albans (c.1624, the son of the mayor), though he would successfully graduate from Cambridge University, biographers are agreed ‘in describing his beginnings as very debauched, leading him to such extravagance that he soon wasted his patrimony’, becoming mired in debt.2

Debt which would see him languish in London’s Fleet Prison for several years yet wherein he would gradually be transformed, applying himself to legal study and honing his skills assisting the causes of fellow inmates. Convincing his creditors that he could discharge his debts more quickly if he was earning, their waivers eventually gained his liberty and Pemberton assiduously set about rebuilding his standing, not to mention a lucrative practice, at the Inns of Court.

see: NPG

Gaining a reputation as a ‘trimmer’ as he navigated the constitutional tectonics during the time of Charles II and later James II, Sir Francis finally ascended to the summit of his profession when appointed Lord Chief Justice in 1681.3 Pemberton would preside over, amongst others, the dubious prosecution for high treason of Archbishop Oliver Plunkett (executed), and of one Joan Buts ‘for being a Common Witch and Inchantress’ (not guilty), before being dismissed on account of ‘imputed judicial independence’ two years later.2

‘Returning to his lucrative private practice, in 1692 Pemberton extended his Trumpington estate by buying up properties there from a bankrupted brother-in-law.’4 But he would never take full possession of the Hall which remained home to the widow of the previous owner, and died at his house in Highgate in June 1697. Pemberton’s son, also Francis, was finally able to move in at Trumpington in 1715 whereupon he quickly setting about modernising the Jacobean residence.

see: Historic England

Formerly a shallow H-plan house, its early Georgian remodelling created a entrance front of seven central bays and projecting wings (with infilling in rear). A walled forecourt and gate piers completed the picture. ‘The interior has many good features’ including ‘graceful’ stairs and reset C17 panelling.5

see: Google Maps

The Reverend Jeremy Pemberton, a younger son of Francis (2), inherited Trumpington after the latter’s death in 1762 but outlived his own sons, the estate being managed by a cousin prior to the coming of age of his grandson, Francis (3). After taking up occupancy c.1810 Francis would add a third storey and pitched roof to the Hall and a large kitchen extension in rear while the land about would be imparked (though ‘a remarkable crinkle crankle wall’, seen below, may predate this).6

see: Google Maps

Francis Pemberton would be the last male heir to Trumpington for 150 years, being succeeded in 1849 by his only child, Frances, at that time a young widow and a mother of three. Like her great-grandfather, Frances (later to remarry her first cousin, Rev. Henry Hodgson) outlived her two childless sons, the estate passing in 1899 to her daughter, Patience, whose husband Reverend Canon Thomas Hudson duly assumed the name and arms of Pemberton. Continuing an unwitting tradition of significant alteration at the Hall…

see: Castleacre Insurance

see: Cambridge Council

… every one hundred years or so, Thomas and Patience added a large library extending from the north wing and also a rectangular bay to the garden front. Their son Francis being killed in action in the early weeks of World War One, Trumpington passed to his sister, Viola, after the death of their mother in 1927. Having married family physician William Wingate, this couple again took the Pemberton name and would soon introduce a loggia (↑) between the kitchen and the immediate garden space.

see: Marathon @ geograph

Viola superintended the convalescence of injured servicemen at Trumpington Hall in WWII, during which time she lost her husband, remaining ‘the grand old lady of the manor’ until her own death in 1972. Meanwhile, the management of the estate had been taken on by her son, Francis (4)…

see: Habitorials

… ‘a leading figure in the agricultural industry’, knighted in 1976. He in turn was superseded by son Antony (left, outside the late-C20th porch), himself now retired and still resident at the Hall. ‘Proud that he can still see the dreaming spires of King’s College from the acres of garden that run down to the River Cam, it’s hard to imagine that, just half a mile away, builders are busy constructing thousands of new homes.’

see: Google Maps

And co-incident with the family’s council-impelled real estate bonanza has been the latest phase of development at Trumpington Hall itself. In 2012 plans were approved for a significant rethink of the house interior, specifically the creation of new kitchen/dining facilities and a reception room adjacent to the formal entrance. In the 24-acre park a new point of focus has been introduced in the shape of a William Kent-inspired pavilion overlooking the old carp canals (r).

WoodlandTrust/YouTube

see: John Sutton

Elsewhere, over 60 acres of broadleaved woodland and 12 kilometres of hedgrerow have been introduced to formerly “prairie-like” farmland, both counteracting the effects of periodic flooding of the Cam and providing “a legacy for future generations” explained Trumpington’s director and heir, Richard Pemberton (r), earlier this year.

see: The Forum

And, not long after the completion of a new family residence on the estate (left), the Pembertons’ concern for Trumpington’s future generations would make national headlines. ‘Toffs rewrite gay inheritance’ gibed the Sunday Times in 2016, revealing that the family ‘had become the first landed gentry to change the inheritance rules of a trust to pass their estate to the partners of gay descendants’. Their 17th-century founding forebear, Sir Francis Pemberton, his judicial career having been ultimately stymied by a ‘supposed leaning to liberal principles’, might perhaps have approved…2

‘Self-preservation being the first law of nature, we should assume [that] man would be easily persuaded to the adoption of precautions which promise a defence against contagion; but when he is bent only on the gratification of his appetites, reflection is lost; that divine gift, Reason, is overwhelmed; and he blindly rushes on, regardless of the consequences!’

Authored anonymously in 1810 ‘by a member of the Royal College of Surgeons in London’, this 170-page handbook was a popular attempt to demystify and distill what was then considered best practice in the prevention of an all too common affliction of the man about town.

’Imminent and extensive as the dangers are which environ those who incur the hazard of venereal infection, the mischief has been seriously aggravated by the preposterous assumption of a complete acquaintance with the treatment and cure of this disorder, by individuals not of the medical profession.’

Whilst loath to promote any of the wide array of quack remedies then available (‘many of [which] have had a prodigious sale’), the sceptical author did feel duty-bound to make one honourable exception.

’The reputation of all these nostrums has been ephemeral, unless I exclude one, Sir Samuel Hannay’s Specific, which, I presume, has some claims to its pretensions, from having remained in vogue upwards of thirty years. Many have reported to me, that they had used this Wash more than twenty years, with unvaried success.’

The Star 11 June 1812

Hannay’s concoction would sustain a pre-eminence in the marketplace for decades in spite of the fact that his patent application in 1774 was ‘one of the very few examples of a patent that was refused the [Lord Chancellor’s] Great Seal’, having been rejected ‘on the grounds of public decency’.

However, though the ‘unrivalled reputation’ (↑) of his wonder potion endured long after the untimely death of ‘the former eminent chemist’ (in 1790, not yet fifty years old), personal and business debts well in excess of £100,000 were revealed upon Hannay’s demise. Indeed, just about the only tangible asset of substance was his estate on the south-west coast of Scotland complete with its gleaming, not-quite-finished Georgian mansion.

see: Paula VanWhy

But to characterise Kirkdale – ‘with a length of 172ft, one of Robert Adam’s largest classical houses’1 – as The House That VD Built would be neither entirely fair nor accurate. For Sir Samuel Hannay was a highly active City figure, maintaining ‘the London end of a business partnership that embraced three brothers busy making fortunes in India during the 1770s and ‘80s’.2

Alas, in the wake of Samuel’s death in 1790 became it soon became evident that ‘he had dissipated his own fortune [and] the very considerable sum left to him by his brother, Col. Alexander Hannay’.3 A regional commanding officer in the East India Company army, Colonel Hannay would later be in the crosshairs of leading parliamentarian Edmund Burke’s prosecution of the regime of Indian Governor-General Warren Hastings. Having previously been in debt, it was claimed, Colonel Hannay had ‘returned to Calcutta in possession of a fortune, “like a leech full of blood”’.

But, again, to describe Kirkdale as The House That Colonial Exploitation Built would be neither entirely fair nor accurate. With a queue of impatient creditors, ‘the lands and estate which belonged to the late Sir Samuel Hannay’ were in fact advertised for sale in 1796. But the Hannays would manage to retain possession of Kirkdale which, in the twentieth century, would be complimented by a second estate acquired by marriage, nearby Cardoness House, a few miles further east along ‘one of the most beautiful coastal roads in Britain’.4 And though post-war pragmatism wrought significant changes, Hannays remainin situ at both properties, continuing a Galloway heritage of close on 500 years.

*

see: littleninjafox

While Kirkdale has for centuries been the seat of the chief of Clan Hannay, the annual gathering of its worldwide diaspora centres upon a crumbling ruin on the opposite side of Wigtown Bay. Late sixteenth-century Sorbie Tower (left) is now the object of a clan-driven restoration mission being promoted by the present Chief, yet the line from which he descends had actually decamped from Sorbie years before the first stones of this structure were laid.

Alexander Hannay purchased lands at Kirkdale in 1532 which were to pass from father to son for the next three hundred years. Details of the family’s original lairdly dwelling have proved elusive but both it and its Georgian replacement were included in the 1796 sale particulars of Sir Samuel Hannay’s estate: ‘To be sold .. the new mansion house; also at a little distance, but concealed by the wood, the former mansion house, which is in very good repair and fit to accommodate any Gentleman’s family.’5

see: Google Maps

Still standing ‘elegant and aloof’6, the fleeting sight of Kirkdale House afforded to modern-day travellers along the A75, between Creetown and Gatehouse of Fleet, is unlikely to excite rhapsodic observations akin to those of writer Robert Heron who passed this way in 1792. ‘The house of Kirkdale, among the most advantageously situate in Scotland, rises to the eye with a sort of magic effect, [having] the air of the palace of an Arabian Tale,’ he suggested, his enthusiasm tempered only by the prospect of what might have been.

‘The adjacent fields [are] bare, uninclosed and unadorned,’ he noted, ‘for, since the House was built, circumstances have arisen, to retard the completion of the noble plan.’ Indeed they had.

Kirkdale House was but the latest trapping of a man seemingly determined to ensure that his name should amount to rather more than just a byword for genital hygiene. In 1783 Samuel Hannay’s petition to the Lord Provost for an old Hannay baronetcy, long in abeyance, to be revived in his favour was successful (though, with other branches having stronger claims, ‘how Samuel managed to achieve his title is difficult to understand’).3 And the following year he would be returned as one of two MPs representing the far-flung Cornish constituency of Camelford, a ‘rotten borough’ the oldest inhabitant of which, it was reported in 1796, could not recall ‘to have ever seen the face of any one of its Members’.

The other half of Camelford’s double act during Sir Samuel’s time was James Macpherson, the pair having seen colonial service in West Florida in the 1760s. ‘The ‘Macpherson mafia’ were [also] Anglo-Indian players at the same time as the Hannays’ but with his prospering druggist enterprise in London Samuel would be the only one of the sons of William Hannay (d.1759) not to venture east in the 1770s.7

see: Bonhams

In 2011 Bonhams auction house in London sold ‘an important Mughal inscribed emerald mounted in a diamond-set gold bangle’ (r) for £90,000. Having passed ‘by descent’, this spectacular jewel had comprised part of the ‘substantial personal fortune’ amassed by Col. Alexander Hannay in his role as an East India Company tax enforcer on behalf of the nawab of Oudh, in north-east India. Whether this wealth had been acquired by ‘firmness and knowledge of business on his part’ or through opportunistic embezzlement, and precisely who had benefited, would be very publicly debated during Burke’s prosecution of Warren Hastings (an affronted Sir Samuel seemingly itching for redress). But ‘it is obvious that Hannay must have collected sums in excess of the stipulated revenue’.8

Many ‘Scots went to India to improve their financial position’, such funds flooding back to Britain proving a timely boon for the Adam brothers, Robert and James, whose hitherto predominantly England-based architecture business was, by 1780, in some difficulty. Thereafter most of their clients would be wealthy compatriots north of the border.9 For James Macpherson, London agent of the nabob of Arcot, came Balavil (sold out of the family in 2015) while Hannay family fund manager Sir Samuel would commission designs for Kirkdale House…

see: Sir John Soane Museum

… ‘externally the most complete of their late classical houses, executed more or less exactly as planned’.10 More accurately, exactly as plan B, for Robert Adam had also prepared a more ambitious scheme for the estate (above) which would never be realised.

see: Yale Center for British Art

This included a larger, more nuanced main house spanning 198 feet, a highly picturesque stable court (r) and a bridge ‘planned as a neo-Egyptian extravaganza complete with swags and sphinxes’.6 What transpired in respect of the first and last elements (also possibly the farm buildings) were crisp, austere structures in ashlar granite devoid of decorative embellishment.

see: Canmore

The south-facing rear of the principal block (left), with its central canted bay, ‘affords fine views over Wigtown Bay with the Isle of Man in the distance’.1 On either flank, ‘narrow three-bay balustraded links join to square, pyramid-roofed pavilions each of two low storeys.’11 The only major external alteration is on the entrance front [see] where ‘the porte-cochere has been converted into a porch’ (↓).1

see: Quintin Lake

Unfortunately, as Kirkdale House was going up so were Sir Samuel’s debts, a weakness for gambling reputedly accounting for much of the financial damage. Having entered into an investment partnership with Hannay, James Macpherson presciently tiptoed away from this association in 1788, ‘passing on his share of the business to another ‘eastern friend’, his cousin Allan Macpherson’ – who soon faced ruin when Samuel Hannay’s insolvency was revealed after his death two years later.7 Insult would be added to financial injury for Macpherson as firstly the Scottish Court of Session…

… and then the House of Lords (1801) subsequently upheld the claim of another substantial creditor as being both legitimate and superior, namely that of Samuel’s own brother, Ramsay. An independent eastern merchant, Ramsay Hannay had sent back nearly £50,000 of his fortune to be managed by Samuel who ‘had granted him a bond secured by all of Sir Samuel’s lands in Scotland’. Macpherson and his fellow creditors unsuccessfully ‘objected that the bond gave Ramsay a fraudulent preference’. (Scots law also came to the aid of the widowed Lady Hannay, granting her a portion of the lands as of right though denying her claim to the old mansion which was still standing at Kirkdale).

see: Lane Fine Art

Faced with a tangled and uncertain inheritance, Sir Samuel’s son and heir (r), also Sir Samuel, took up a military career, service with the Life Guards taking him to the Continent where peril was sometimes less a matter of duty than of honour. For in September 1801 newspapers carried reports of his return from Hamburg, Hannay and a fellow officer having travelled there specifically to fight a duel following an altercation in London’s Bond Street.12

In the wake the speedy unravelling of Britain’s truce with France in 1803 Samuel Hannay soon found himself a prisoner-of-war alongside his brother-in-law, Capt. Thomas Rainsford. (Jane Hannay, facing family hostility towards her relationship with her brother’s Life Guards colleague, had eloped with Thomas, the couple apparently being disowned thereafter. In a later reversal of fortunes, Thomas Rainsford would find himself superintending the exile of Napoleon on the island of St. Helena, he and his wife dying there ‘within months of each other in 1817’.)13

see: Canmore

Sir Samuel died unmarried in 1841, Kirkdale now passing to his spinster sister, Mary, ‘by virtue of a deed of entail made by Ramsay Hannay’. At her demise nine years later Mary’s nephew, William Rainsford, became the fourth consecutive childless owner of Kirkdale, adding the Hannay name to his own as would, in due course, his brother Major Frederick Rainsford Hannay in 1856. The last-named died in 1884 and it would be during the custodianship of Frederick’s eldest son, Ramsay, that calamity would befall the house that Samuel Hannay built.

‘On Thursday forenoon the large mansion house of Kirkdale was totally destroyed by fire,’ exaggerated one newspaper report in May 1893. More accurately, while the interior structure of the main block was indeed lost, ‘the paintings and most of the furniture were saved’, a fact which possibly did little to ease the mortification of a certain Mr. Charlesworth, however. For, whilst Ramsay Rainsford-Hannay was by now the father of a sizable brood, at the time of the blaze Kirkdale House was in fact let to and occupied by this unfortunate individual.14

The Edinburgh firm of Kinnear & Peddie were engaged for the rebuilding, replacing Adams’ central staircase and enclosed gallery in a ‘neo-Jacobean manner, not an entirely happy counterpoint to the exterior’.11 Four years earlier this same practice had been responsible for the full-blown ‘Baronial-isation’ of a hitherto relatively modest house just a few miles to the east of Kirkdale.

see source

Cardoness House was the seat of Sir William Maxwell, 4th Bt., and at the time of his daughter Dorothea’s 1910 marriage to the eldest son of Ramsay Rainsford-Hannay, it was destined to pass to her only brother. But unmarried 30-year-old William fell at Gallipoli…

… the Cardoness Estate consequently being inherited by his sister at around the same time that Kirkdale was being handed over to her husband by his father. With two country piles on his hands, in the straitened years post-World War II Kirkdale House – ‘beautifully situated, in excellent order, fourteen bedrooms, large walled garden, shooting over 4,800 acres’ – was made available to let.15 But following Col. Rainsford-Hannay’s death in 1959 his only surviving child, Ramsay, determined to take a pragmatic grip of his inheritance.

see: icaravans

see: Google Maps

‘With great foresight,’ remarked one press obituary, ‘he knocked down two thirds of one house and converted the other into apartments.’ Cardoness House was ‘savagely reduced in size’, being essentially shorn of its Baronial character (a reminder of which endures in the shape of the entrance lodge, right).11

Meanwhile, in 1967 Kirkdale House would be divided into eight separate rental / leasehold flats which continue to be periodically available (save for one). Further, as noted in that 2004 obituary, Ramsay Rainsford-Hannay ‘used the potential of beaches on the Solway coast to start a successful caravan park, which he realised provided a way for his family to continue their long association with the area.’

see source

‘Some 100 acres of coastal parkland and policies out of the Cardoness Estate’s 2,000 acres have been set aside as a caravan park of distinction,’ while the Kirkdale Estate’s own two miles of ‘private foreshore’ (right) includes holiday cottages and the ancient oak woodland of Ravenshall SSSI (home to, amongst other things, a ‘rare cave-dwelling woodlouse‘). Today these enterprises are managed – in combination with traditional estate activities – by the grandsons of Ramsay Rainsford-Hannay, their father…

see source

… clan chief Dr. David Hannay, being now retired from an academic career in the field of healthcare. Having on occasion asserted ‘the benefits of sex education’ it is perhaps ironic that Dr. Hannay’s dubiously qualified ancestor should have prospered in no small part thanks to ‘the general ignorance, even among the superior classes of society, of the possibility of escaping infection by venereal poison’. The magic formula of Sir Samuel Hannay’s eponymous prophylactic may be lost to us but, happily, his splendid erection, Kirkdale House, still stands proud…

‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers’ may be a healthy general maxim but in the matter of a key moment in the history of the ‘big house’ in the parish of Overbury, at the foot of Bredon Hill on the Worcestershire/Gloucestershire border, Handed on is happy to trust the press. Down through the years most publications which have treated this place record 1738 as the year in which the original gabled manor house here burned down; at variance, one particularly respected source suggests 1735. And then there is this brief item of news which appeared in the Daily Gazetteer in its edition of 1 June, 1736:

’Last Thursday Se’ennight a dreadful Fire broke out at Overbury in Worcestershire, the Seat of Mr. Martin, Esq., which burnt down the Inside of that fine House, with part of the Furniture, amounting to a very considerable damage.’

Whilst it’s not inconceivable that this place could suffer devastating misfortune twice in short order, this blog is satisfied that we have our date. Factual reporting of this nature is, of course, relatively uncontentious. By contrast, some 160 years after the Overbury blaze the first-ever female candidate for the presidency of the United States would be desperately trying to persuade the Martins, an English banking dynasty of impeccable rectitude (one of whom she was seeking to marry), that she was not the scandalous libertarian virago of press characterization.

Despite claiming that “my life has been made wretched by them all”,1 Idaho-born Victoria Woodhull’s extraordinary, rollercoaster odyssey would have an typically unlikely denoument: a lady of the manor and the largest shareholder in Martin & Co., the prosperous finance house which sustained a family estate ‘maintained [to this day] at a standard of perfection that can hardly be surpassed anywhere else in Britain’.2

see: Google Maps

‘House and village evoke a vanished age: all is beautifully maintained and the feeling of a manorial stronghold is still very strong.’3

But while time would appear to stand still here, the Overbury estate (of 5,000 acres encompassing two villages) is far from ossified. This is an olde worlde idyll now powered, for example, by superfast fibre-optic broadband, industrial strength connectivity handy not least for keeping abreast of the various dedicated websites of the estate/farms/villages hereabouts. Not forgetting the Grasshoppers Nursery, the naming of which has its roots in the foundations of the Martin family’s fortune.

see: Google Maps

In the early years of the eighteenth century three brothers from a well-established family of standing in Evesham, Thomas, John and James Martin, became partners in a private banking concern quartered at the sign of the Grasshopper in Lombard Street in the City of London. Originally the site of Elizabethan royal financier Sir Thomas Gresham’s activities, this address would remain the headquarters of Stone & Martin, later Martins Bank, for the next 200 years. (The firm merged with larger Bank of Liverpool in 1918 before finally being swallowed whole by Barclays Bank in 1969.)

see: Historic England

Such was their success, by the early 1720s the brothers were in the market for country estates. James would become lord of the manor of Stow cum Quy, east of Cambridge, seated at Quy Hall (r). Dying without issue in 1744 this property was devised to similarly childless Thomas who would in turn settle Quy upon his nephew, the heir and namesake of brother John. (The Quy estate passed by descent until being sold in 1855 to the Francis family in whose hands it remains.)

Not that John II was exactly short of options having married Judith Bromley, heiress of the Ham Court estate near Upton upon Severn in Worcestershire, while his father was now the squire of Overbury some eight miles to the east.

see: Curt Mekemson

Fire having consumed the residence which came with this estate (initially leased from the Dean and Chapter of Worcester in 1723), John Martin had built a ‘large ashlar house, 1739-43, perhaps by the younger William Smith‘. Of honeyed local limestone, the principal seven-bay facade – its centre pedimented and slightly projecting – faced south, with five-bay returns. (John II is understood to have improved the family seat, possibly with the introduction of the attic storey, the pediment being raised.)4

Further reflecting their ascendancy all three Martin brothers were returned to parliament, John as the member for Tewkesbury, a position in which he would be succeeded in turn by each of his three sons. (This constituency was represented by a member of the Martin family, ‘with but few interruptions, for very nearly 150 years’.) But while he did his turn as MP, eldest son John II did not join the bank, ‘having chosen a profession of being his father’s heir’.5 In addition to developing Overbury after inheriting in 1767, Martin also commissioned a new mansion at Ham Court (below) from local architect Anthony Keck.

see: Historic England

Having no children at his death in 1794 John II’s property now passed to his brothers, both of whom had become senior partners in the family bank. Ham Court was inherited by Joseph Martin, Quy by Joseph’s son, Thomas, while brother James (II) now took responsibility at Overbury Court. James Martin’s marriage to Penelope Skippe would yield yet more property: The Upper Hall, Ledbury, just over the border into Herefordshire (2,300 acres by 1873) and the significant collection of drawings amassed on his Grand Tour by her bachelor brother John Skippe (who retired to Overbury village, dying there in 1812).

James (II) was a scrupulous parliamentarian, gaining the nickname ‘Starling’ Martin during his three decades as MP for Tewkesbury. ‘A frequent but awkward speaker, much given to protestations of his integrity and independence, he was not always taken seriously; but he was no buffoon. Generally recognized as one of the most independent Members of the House, he passionately advocated abolition of the slave trade.’ Martin paid 20 guineas to George Romney for his likeness (r), captured during seven sittings for the artist in 1786.6

James died in 1810; across the remainder of the nineteenth century there were to be but two (albeit largely absentee) landlords of Overbury Court. Such was the commitment of eldest son John (III) to the banking business that he lived ‘above the shop’ in Lombard Street and, perhaps unsurprisingly, married Frances Stone, daughter of a fellow partner, Richard Stone (both men having accessible country retreats in Chiselhurst, Kent). Until John’s son, Robert, retired to Overbury from life in London in 1873 the mansion was periodically let, tenants including Robert Berkeley, the heir to Spetchley Park elsewhere in the county.

see: Historic England

In the year of his return to Worcestershire Robert Martin suffered the loss of his daughter, Penelope, who died following the birth of what would be his only grandchild. (Son-in-law the Rev. Frederick Holland would remain in the family, however, marrying his late wife’s cousin, John Martin’s daughter Elinore, two years later.)

See: Overbury

Some years into his full-time residency at Overbury Court Martin engaged architect Richard Norman Shaw, initiating a rolling programme of major alterations to the house and grounds which would continue well into the twentieth century under his heir, son Richard, and Shaw’s pupil, Ernest Newton. The most substantial element was Shaw’s new north-west wing of 1897-1900 (above), the most publicly visible his earlier grand ornamental gates.

see: Historic England

‘At Overbury the elevations of Shaw’s additions were almost brutally plain [N entrance, left], the interiors rich but simple. He advised the Martins to put plain lining paper on the walls of their best bedroom to start with and then, after a year or two, “to put on a [William] Morris paper at 18s/6d a roll!, as provided by that rampant socialist for well-to-do people”.’7 But for the Martins the troubling world of radical social reform had come a whole lot closer to home than simply their choice in wallpaper.

For, one day in December 1877, Robert’s younger son, John Biddulph Martin, then 36 and single, had decided to attend a public talk entitled ‘The Human Body, the Temple of God’ to be given by a 39-year-old woman recently arrived on these shores from her native America. An indefatigable controversialist, Victoria Claflin Woodhull was embarking on the next chapter of an extraordinary life which, in addition to her energetic espousal of women’s suffrage, spiritualism and ‘free love’, had hitherto encompassed: the establishment of both a stock brokerage and a fearlessly muckraking newspaper in New York, a spell of imprisonment for ‘obscenity’ and, not least, her pioneering female candidature for the American presidency in 1872.

John Biddulph Martin was instantly smitten. But the colourful ‘baggage’ of the soon-to-be equally enamoured Victoria made her a difficult enough sell to the wider Martin family even before the couple got around to mentioning her two previous marriages and Zula, her accompanying grown-up daughter.

After five years navigating turbulent emotional waters – an increasingly desperate Victoria’s revisionist biography cutting little ice, her torn beau calling it off at least once – the couple wed in secret in 1883. They began an active married life at their house in Hyde Park, Martin’s wealth funding his wife’s continued campaigning. [Archive]

see: Country Life

With the passage of time came grudging acceptance. A decade on, Robert Martin gifted his younger son the neighbouring Worcestershire estate of Bredon’s Norton – 1,200 acres centred upon Norton Park (right), ‘an amazingly early example of Victorian ‘Tudor Gothic’4 – on condition it should revert to him, should John predecease him. ‘Fortunately for Victoria, [her husband] survived his father by three days.’8

Now landed in her own right (and also ‘the major shareholder’ in Martins Bank8), from 1901 widow Victoria and her daughter began life as ladies of the manor.

Their PR instincts remained acute, however: a multi-page spread in Country Life magazine in 1902 anointed their new-found status (daughter Zula even bagging the frontispiece in the same edition, left). The pair’s reformist zeal was now focused on dragging the unsuspecting villagers of sleepy Bredon’s Norton into the 20th century. While every local farmer was soon equipped with a telephone, various socially progressive educational initiatives would ultimately hit the reactionary buffers.

see: Savills

Victoria died in 1927 by which time neighbouring Overbury was in the hands of her late husband’s nephew, Robert Holland-Martin, ‘her one friend in the family’ (and to whom the Woodhull estate passed after spinster Zula’s death in 1940).1 Prior to taking up residence at Overbury in 1922 Holland-Martin, his wife Eleanor (Martin, of Ham Court) and their six sons had occupied Bell’s Castle (r), ‘a miniature neo-Gothic castle with an unforgettable view’, which stands between the Court and Norton Park.9 (Sold out of the family in 2014.)

see: Curt Mekemson

see source

‘A great deal had been done to the house and garden’ ahead of the Holland-Martin brood’s arrival – a full-height projection of c.1910 on the east front housed a lift shaft (left) – and Overbury Court would continue to evolve.

Architect Sir Herbert Baker contributed a large porch on the west side c.1925 (↑). ‘These improvements were only a beginning: neither Robert Holland-Martin nor any of his family ever felt that Overbury was as perfect as they could make it, and from that time onwards there has never been a moment at which some plan or other was not under discussion.’9 [GII* listing]

see: Historic England

In recent times a scheme for a colonnade and pergola which incorporated eighteen Corinthian columns (bank closure salvage) was rejected by planners troubled by its ‘modern garden centre’ aesthetic. The garden has been the object of particular focus over the past century with many designers taking a hand. ‘If it has a fault, like the houses of the village it has had almost too much money spent upon it.’10

see: Google Maps

The lawn and sunken features to the south (above) were another Edwardian addition, the removal of trees permitting a limitless vista beyond the ‘vast extent of clipped hedges (r) taking fourteen days in September to trim’. The crisp geometry here stands in contrast to the ‘serpentine pools linked by foaming cascades‘ weaving amongst mature trees bounding lawn to the west of the house.11

see source

When Robert Holland-Martin died suddenly in 1944 ‘the City lost one of its most genial, active and useful figures’ and Overbury Court one of its most enthusiastic hosts.12 A boundless fascination with bygone artefacts, which in his time filled every available corner of house, created a problematic legacy, however. ‘Rather than ‘spend the rest of my life wood-worming [it],’ the contents of Holland-Martin’s museum – ‘one of the most spectacular collections of useless objects in Britain’ – would be dispersed by Sotheby’s on behalf of Holland-Martin’s granddaughter in 1996.13

There had been losses, too, during the time of his heir, son Edward (‘Ruby’), albeit often involuntary. One night in 1955 two men were caught red-handed attempting to break into the strongroom at Overbury using an oxy acetylene torch. The same space had been invaded just a year earlier with the loss of heraldic porcelain and silverware while another burglary in 1969 relieved the family of thousands of pounds worth of similar items.

see: Goldeneye Guides

Losses by design included the Skippe collection of important Old Master drawings which were sold in 1958 and, a year later, another two-day sale of valuable furniture and effects ‘owing to the reduction of the size of the house’. The latter was overseen by architect Victor Heal who ‘demolished Norman Shaw’s NW wing, replacing it with a smaller NE version’ (r).4

A renowned amateur steeplechase jockey between the wars, Edward Holland-Martin suffered a crippling fall in 1952 but in partnership with brother Thurston the family’s equestrian reputation continued with the establishment of Overbury Stud. Having bred the likes of Derby-winning Grundy the stud is today home to champion National Hunt sire Kayf Tara.

see: Calix / YouTube

Though he had also served many years as a director of the Bank of England and treasurer of the National Trust, at his death in 1981 The Times observed that ‘Overbury Court was the real centre of his life, a model estate maintained to the highest possible standards’.14 Standards to which his only child, Penelope (r), has since continued to aspire, and who, aside from superfast broadband, has brought to Overbury one asset money cannot (any longer) buy.

“I have just been listening to the story of Richard working to get a baronetcy,” the perpetually aggrieved Victoria Woodhull Martin would write of her aloof brother-in-law in 1897. “He will get it. Money buys all.”1 And in 1905, by whatever means, the then squire of Overbury did indeed gain this hereditary distinction – only for it to expire eleven years later when he died without children. But the death in 2017 of Major Sir Clive Bossom, 2nd Bt, would raise son Bruce (co-founder of ‘one of Europe’s most successful private equity real estate firms’) to the baronetcy, his wife of over thirty years henceforth to be formally addressed as Lady Penelope, with their son and heir the next in line…

In the northern extremities of Shropshire during the early decades of the C16th the name of Humphrey Kynaston was legendary for all the right or wrong reasons, depending on your place in the social order. The heroic benefactor of a grateful and protective rural peasantry was simply a villainous bandit in the eyes of the local landowning class – of which, indeed, Kynaston’s own family had long been a part. Unbridled extravagance and an impetuous temper were among a sizeable collection of character failings which had seen ‘Wild Humphrey’ squander the advantages of his birthright ushering in a life of crime, being outlawed and reduced to sharing a vertiginous cave dwelling with his trusty steed, Beelzebub.

see: TheWrens

In the nineteenth century this primitive redoubt would be ‘shewn to travellers by a facetious old dame who inhabits it’. Today Kynaston’s cave can still be visited, as – occasionally and by appointment – can the ‘galumphing, provincially ambitious’ mansion which would be built twelve miles to the north by Humphrey’s direct descendant, six generations on.1 Hardwick Hall stands tall just to the west of Ellesmere, the distant view from the lane of its south front remaining little changed in almost three centuries.

Humphrey Kynaston died in 1534. His second cousin and sometime contemporary, meanwhile – being also called Humphrey Kynaston and living in north Shropshire – could perhaps have been forgiven if he had feared his own prospects might be somewhat tarnished by association. But he would nonetheless succeed in winning the hand of his neighbour, Mary Oteley, heiress of the Oteley estate immediately east of Ellesmere. An earlier fork in the genealogy of the two Humphreys would see Hardwick and Oteley descend independently (both occasionally in the female line) until the twenty first century when the Kynaston name would finally connect these longstanding Shropshire neighbours.

*

see: Friends of Shropshire Archives

In a county still pleasingly stiff with dignified gentry houses Hardwick Hall’s badge of distinction is literally that, an unavoidable heraldic display framed within a peculiarly heightened segmental tympanum. The arms occupying this ‘strange, ungainly space’1 are a trophy of war, the chevron and ermine of Lancastrian troop commander Lord Audley having been adopted by his vanquisher Sir Roger Kynaston…

… after the first battle of the Wars of the Roses in 1459. Sir Roger (the father of ‘Wild’ Humphrey, his brother being the grandfather of Humphrey of Oteley) ‘had claims through marriage on Myddle Castle’, between Ellesmere and Shrewsbury. Responsibility for this late-medieval pile was handed to his younger son, whose self-indulgence and consequent indebtedness would engender both his and the castle’s decline.

Humphrey’s childless elder brother had inherited the family’s core estate at Hordley, four miles south of Ellesmere, passing it in due course to Humphrey’s son, Edward. Hordley (and its since-converted manor house) would remain the seat and burial place of this branch of the Kynastons for the next five generations.

The marriage of Edward Kynaston (1640-1693) brought with it ‘very extensive property within the liberties of Shrewsbury’. Subsequent active involvement in the affairs of the town culminated in Edward being elected one of its two MPs; his son and heir likewise followed him into parliament, gaining the soubriquet ‘John of the trousers‘ on account of certain sartorial peculiarities. But John’s fashion sense plainly did him no harm in the matrimonial stakes, marriage to heiress first wife Beatrice (d.1703) eventually yielding the unentailed estates of the Corbets of Moreton Corbet.

see: ArtFund / Shrewsbury Museum

Purchases further expanded the Kynaston domain; by the 1720s (and with a new family by his second wife) John’s circumstances fairly demanded an upgrade of the family seat. On a virgin site north of Hordley John Kynaston set about building ‘a later Baroque house with tremendous punch’2 facing south ‘towards a beautiful view’.3

see: Heritage

see: Buntingsdale

Buntingsdale Hall (left) and Mawley Hall are two of several contemporary Shropshire houses very redolent of the style of prolific provincial master Francis Smith of Warwick. It has oft been thought…

… that Hardwick could be of similar provenance ‘but its detailing distinguishes it’ from such handsome company.3 Detailing which includes…

see: Bing Maps

see: noorcaughley

… the ‘almost aggressive’ tympanum4 and a lower string course which cuts a pair of giant pilasters off at the knees. Flanking this original entrance front, ‘quadrant walls link to symmetrical service pavilions set forward’.3

see source

By contrast, ‘the north front is of nine closely spaced bays,’3 seemingly a classically unconventional scheme to enable a five-bay saloon (behind a square entrance hall) and workable spaces either side. To the west is Hardwick’s ‘principal original feature, and finest space, the square staircase’, full height, with three twisted balusters per tread.3 ‘Chimneys with recessed panels are another feature of this eccentric house,’ and are a motif common to several houses by Staffordshire architect/builder Richard Trubshaw.1

Like his father before him, Corbet Kynaston, the eldest son of John by his first wife, entered parliament representing successively Shrewsbury and Shropshire. Corbet’s election expenses had initially been picked up by his father but relations became strained and his debts mounted. Being also pursued for substantial South Sea Bubble liabilities (not to mention his flirtations with Jacobitism) Corbet fled abroad, continuing to live ‘extravagantly’ in Boulogne.

see: Dunedin Art Gallery

Kynaston remained overseas until his father’s death in 1733 after which it was revealed John Kynaston had ‘disinherited his son of all except his entailed estates, in favour of Edward Kynaston, the first son of his second marriage’. (Corbet’s maternal inheritance provided income but he would sell much of this property back to his Corbet cousins, in whose hands it remains). Unlike the turbulent times of his step-brother, Edward Kynaston (right, as painted by Allan Ramsay) enjoyed a long and relatively uneventful tenure as squire (Corbet dying unmarried in 1740). Though an MP for over 30 years ‘he hardly ever spoke in debate’.

But despite a long marriage he, too, died childless in 1772, brother Roger now becoming the third son of John Kynaston to inherit the Hardwick estate. He would have little opportunity to enjoy the house in his remaining sixteen years, however, his sister-in-law having the use of Hardwick for her lifetime. Roger lived splendidly in Shrewsbury – sponsoring many civic initiatives – with his wife, Mary Powell, ‘who brought further estates to the Kynastons’, their son and heir John later inheriting those of his uncle, John Powell, (taking his name in accordance) in 1797.

see: NPG

Having failed in his quest to have an abeyant barony (of Grey de Powis) revived in his favour, Kynaston Powell (left) was instead ‘consoled with a baronetcy’. Dying childless, this title and the family estates now passed to his brother, Rev. Sir Edward Kynaston. It would be the latter’s son, Sir Roger, who – prior to his tenure as squire being abruptly terminated when he was knocked down in the road in central London – would effect significant changes to Hardwick Hall and its grounds in the middle of the nineteenth century.

see: Country Life / Rostron & Edwards

The house was now ‘turned around’ and new additions built at each corner. A sitting room and a since-lost conservatory disrupted the balanced composition in the south (a verandah – ‘rather amusing in itself but altogether out of place’ – being later added).5 Twin single-storey three-bay spurs now flanked the north front, a new entrance porch being sited (‘in defiance of symmetry’3) at its west end, curiously connected to a central canted bay by a glass lobby. Inside, ‘Sir John removed the fittings of all the principal rooms; amid much of Victorian date there yet remains a sprinkling of good C18th furniture,’ noted Country Life magazine in its visitation precisely one hundred years ago.5

see: Invitation to View

see: Emily Dove

‘Said in 1861 to have spent £2,000 on his gardens,’ Sir John now had a raised terrace laid to the south, rolling down to a ha-ha and ornamental railings, while an arboretum and pleasure grounds were developed in the west.

Unmarried Kynaston’s fatal encounter with that cart in Charing Cross would mark the end of the direct male line at Hardwick, his sister Amy dying two years later ‘having devised the estates to the descendant of her maternal grandfather Robert Owen of Dublin’.6 The Rev Walter Owen assumed the name and arms of Kynaston at the outset of what would be a 35-year incumbency as squire.

see: England’s Places

Meanwhile, four miles east on other side of Ellesmere, the long Kynaston male line at Otelely had ended in 1781 when Edward Kynaston, though three times married, died without issue. His sister Mary had married James Mainwaring of Bromborough Hall, Cheshire, the heir to both estates being her grandson Rev Charles Mainwaring whose son Charles Kynaston Mainwaring would set about a dramatic transformation of the house at Oteley and its grounds abutting the largest of Shropshire’s ancient meres.

see: bakers_hill

see: source

A rambling half-timbered house (left) would be entirely replaced by a ‘Neo-Tudor mansion (↑) built 1826-30 to the designs of Thomas Jones of Chester. It must have made a romantic sight from the town across the mere’.3

But this arresting edifice, with its ‘strong display of gables and battlemented entrance tower’,2 was itself razed in 1960 by Mark Mainwaring (to be superseded by a replacement house seemingly designed, by contrast, to wholly emasculate the senses). It was survived by contemporary Italianate lakeside terracing (↑), a striking folly tower and other characterful structures which have been regularly visitable since 1927, Oteley being a founder-participant in the charitable National Gardens Scheme. Until very recently this tradition of access – continued by the present owner of the 1,600-acre estate – long distinguished Oteley Park from its near neighbour…

… but a turn of events has seen developments back at Hardwick Hall.

Having inherited less than one month after he came of age in 1935, decorated war hero Major John Kynaston ‘retired from the Army in 1947 to manage the family estate’. (Extending to some 3,500 acres in 1883, the original Hordley portion, a little over 900 acres, would be placed on the market in 1973). ‘A great supporter of village cricket, the pitch in the park at Hardwick with its modern pavilion and facilities was the envy of many.’

see: Hardwick Hall

see: Frankton CC

And the sporting profile of Hardwick Hall has expanded in recent times (r) while the house itself is also now occasionally opened to visitors. For John Kynaston passed away in 2011 aged 96, having been an only child and with none of his own. There being no direct heir the Hardwick Hall estate was taken on by Neil (Kynaston) Mainwaring, a younger son of the squire of Oteley Park – a remarkable conjoining of the bifurcated Kynaston line after a period of some five hundred years…

In 1762, at the height of his powers and popularity, Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown was engaged by the first Earl of Shelburne to reimagine the surroundings of Bowood, the Wiltshire house he had acquired (and subsequently enlarged) eight years before. Beyond establishing the bounds of his latest canvas Brown possibly paid the neighbouring lands little heed. Yet immediately south of Bowood’s park was a property already possessed of ‘a fine designed landscape’1 which had been developed before Brown was born and which bore the influence of a man whose work ‘was seminal to the development of the English landscape garden in the early 18th century’.

Today, the name of Stephen Switzer does not resound like that of his later fellow practitioner. Similarly, whilst the pared-back splendour of 4,000-acre Bowood draws thousands annually its comely neighbour to the south, Whetham House, remains decidedly obscure; little-known and hidden from view. Though comparatively modest in all tangible aspects Whetham retains a distinction riches by definition cannot buy, being another corner of England which has never once changed hands for money. Despite a line of descent stretching back into the 13th century the essential character of this place has remained remarkably little altered, due in part to the fact that for some 250 years…

… Whetham would play second fiddle to a larger family estate sixty-five miles to the north. With a 450-year history alternately separate and shared, while Homme House in Herefordshire would eventually be uncoupled from joint inheritance in the 1920s (and has latterly developed a commercial profile) it, too, remains ‘very much a family home’.

*

see source

‘The arms of Fynamore, impaled by Ernle, are still to be seen carved upon the [west] front of Whetham House,’ relates this late-C19 source (which also carries a puzzling sketch, right, depicting the building in a form which has seemingly never existed). The ‘ornate armorial cartouche’ memorializes the first two families in the chain of ownership here, the Fynamore male line obtaining from c.1260 until the death of Roger Fynamore in 1574. His heiress Mary had married Michael Ernle, the couple being succeeded by a sequence of John Ernles, among them the most high-profile owner in Whetham’s history.

source: Historic England

Sir John Ernle would serve thirteen years as Chancellor of the Exchequer from 1676 until eventually replaced under the new regime following the Glorious Revolution. ‘Sir John had a large house at his death in 1697,’2 L-plan by this time, a south front of five bays and two gables now perpendicular to the original range. While a new entrance bay was later added by his grandson heir (Ernle’s two sons having predeceased him) the main preoccupation of the new young squire would be the park and surrounding estate.

John Kyrle Ernle was born in 1682, the same year as progressive gardener Stephen Switzer whose name, for all his professional success, would quickly receed from memory. Just five years after Switzer ‘died a rich man’ in 1745 it was remarked that people were ‘ignorant that he had been the chief promoter of the present taste in gardening’.3 Hampshire-born Switzer’s career began in 1697 as an apprentice at the preeminent Brompton Park Nursery of Henry London and George Wise (later to be joined by his younger contemporary Charles Bridgeman).

see source

Significant involvement in large scale projects such as Blenheim, Kensington Palace and Castle Howard followed, the last-named bringing Switzer into the orbit of Sir John Vanbrugh. The pair would later team up to remake Grimsthorpe Castle for Robert Bertie, 4th earl of Lindsey. But Switzer’s output was as much theoretical, setting him apart from his fellow practicioners. In 1715 he published what would become the first element of his three-volume magnum opus Ichnographia rustica, his ‘manifesto for a designed landscape’.4 A reaction against the over-wrought, high maintenance country house grounds hitherto prevalent, Switzer advocated a more holistic, relatively informal estate vision, ‘an enfilade’ of diverse elements adapting the bounty of Mother Nature, ‘a little guided in her Extravagancies by the artist’s hand’.

‘His message was not fully adopted until well passed mid-century’ but a corner of Wiltshire caught on early. Switzer introduced an array of features to the grounds of Spye Park (‘all now sunk without trace’) and, immediately to the east, a young John Kyrle Ernle was keenly rolling up his sleeves. ‘Given the personal association between Swtizer and Kyrle Ernle, Switzer’s residence and nursery nearby, his work for other improvers in the area, and most notably the fact that in this very early period the only advocate for a garden-estate was Switzer himself, his authorship of Whetham is a very near certainty.’4

see: Bing Maps

‘Today the park at Whetham is a mixture of rough woodland and pasture but in its 1720s prime it must have approached very near to the Arcadian landscapes which William Kent would be creating in the 1730s’.5 A hands-on enthusiast, Kyrle Ernle developed various gardens, coppices, vineyards, and avenues including ‘ye Walk of ye Wilderness’ and, extending south, ‘ye Great Walk in front of ye House’. Most elaborately, in the wooded slopes to the north the flow of a stream was manipulated to create a spectacular water feature observed by the 1st Earl of Hopetoun on a visit in 1712.

‘The principal cascade began at the cascade-house – “25 feet broad and near as high, with statues and a dolphin’s head” – then descended some 60 feet [in] “10 or 12 steps for 500 feet”, finishing in a basin where three horse heads spouted water in the centre.’4 To sustain or increase the cascade flow, several years later Kyrle Ernle would pay £35 to a ‘Mr. Mitchell for ye Fire Engine’, a contraption for pumping water.1

see source

In another treatise, on ‘Hydrostaticks and Hydraulicks’, Stephen Switzer cited the Whetham water-works in the same breath as not only those at Chatsworth and Dyrham but also any that Italy or France could then boast, providing an analogous illustration (right).

But while the development of Whetham certainly preoccupied the attention of its young squire it was not the only estate of which he was now possessed. For his mother, Vincentia, was the only child of Sir John Kyrle whose great-grandfather had acquired the Herefordshire manor of Much Marcle in the second half of the 16th century. The extent of John Kyrle Ernle’s involvement here, if any, has not been established, and the Kyrle seat Homme House appears to have been leased during this time. But in a corner of the walled garden stands a building suggestive of a creative mind at work here on the Herefordshire / Gloucestershire border at around the time the two estates became linked.

see: geeflee

While some elements of the recently restored ‘remarkable summer house [appear] convincingly medieval’, grant-aiding Historic England describe a ‘late C17 Grade I-listed important and little altered early example of a Gothick garden building, predating Miller’s work at Radway Grange in the 1740s or Walpole’s work at Strawberry Hill’. Homme House itself at this time was a battlemented sandstone C16 edifice to which a ‘low brick wing of c.1700’ would be added (below).6

see: Russell Lewis Photography

John Kyrle Ernle died in 1725, his schemes at Whetham beginning a slow, inexcorable decline not least because his only child, Constantia, married Lord Dupplin (later 9th Earl of Kinnoull) and spent much time in Perthshire. At her death in 1753 the earl – ‘who probably owed his reputation as a fool to the fact that the word for bore had yet to be invented’ – was displeased to learn that his wife’s not inconsiderable estates had been settled ‘upon the sole representative of her ancestors’…

c.1845 (see source)

… namely her cousin Elizabeth’s son, James Money, a fact which protracted litigation would not alter. By the time of Money’s son, William (d.1808), Whetham had gained a sizeable north range (r), undergone some internal adjustments and in 1795 the house, ‘lately fitted up’, was available to let. (The imposition of a turnpike road in 1790-1 was, alas, another nail in the coffin of John Kyrle Ernle’s designed landscape, cutting the southern half of the park off from the house.)

see: Jareklepak

Also around this time the character of Homme House would undergo rather more radical alteration. The castellated remnant now became an appendage to a three-storey Late Georgian block, ‘originally of stone, refaced in thin brick’. Inside, the ‘broad entrance hall’ and the rooms off it incorporate C17th fixtures from the earlier house, with ‘a handsome flying staircase’ (↓) beyond.7

see: bethbakescakes

Soon after inheriting both estates in 1808 William Money’s eldest son, later Maj. Gen. Sir James, took the additional surname of Kyrle by Royal Licence. This favouring of his Herefordshire heritage was further emphasised when he gave his clerical brother William tenancy of Whetham for his lifetime. The rector of nearby Yatesbury for over four decades, the Rev. William and his wife, Emma, nurtured a large family at Whetham in an atmosphere of strong morality and emotional articulacy.

‘Although they spent relatively little time apart, William and Emma wrote almost one thousand letters to each other during their forty-year marriage,’ the last years of which were passed at Homme House following the death of childless Sir James in 1843. The transition ‘from being a rural clergyman possessed of 450 acres, to a substantial proprietor of 4,000’ in Herefordshire was not entirely comfortable, however. Also adopting the Money-Kyrle moniker, ‘the ostentation and worldliness of their peers in the social elite into which William was [now] projected’ compared unfavourably with the wholesome piety of their previous existence. William died five years later aged 61, Emma outliving him by just three months.8

With the family’s material fortunes enhanced, soon after their inheritance of the Homme estate the couple’s eldest son, William Money-Kyrle, in his mid-thirties and unmarried, belatedly embarked on several years of travel in Europe and the Middle East. A rather more prosaic excursion would prove his undoing, however, a dip in the sea at Scarborough in the summer of 1868 inducing a chill from which he never recovered. But he had lived long enough to foresee trouble ahead for the family estates.

see: Prodrone Services

Having no children of his own, William’s heir was his brother, Lt-Col. John Money-Kyrle whose two eldest sons were now also young army officers serving in India. The difference between Ernle and his younger brother Audley was apparent early. “I should strongly counsel his not entering the army at all for, if he did pass, he would surely bring shame and disgrace upon us all by his ruinous and dissipated habits,” a 16-year-old Audley had advised his father in a letter home from school. Ernle did indeed pass out of Sandhurst and shame and disgrace did indeed ensue.

‘Court-martialled for debts and illegally selling beer, his deceits, criminality and lack of self-control became a template for ungentlemanly behaviour.’ Fleeing to England to escape his creditors, Ernle would be ‘retired‘ from military service in 1872, an exasperated (and by contrast eminently responsible) Audley now advising that their father “should simply decline to see him”, suggesting that he was a hopeless case.

And it transpired their uncle William had reached a similar conclusion, his will stipulating that the estate was to be entailed on John Money-Kyrle ‘as a life interest, with strict instructions it by-pass Ernle’. “Had he been different there is no doubt your uncle would have entailed the estate absolutely on me and my children,” lamented John. “Thus his miserable course has not only affected himself but may entirely change the direction of the property.”9

Upstanding Audley did eventually inherit in 1894, outliving his father by fourteen years before dropping dead suddenly whilst out shooting near Homme, aged 62. (He had made his mark at Whetham with a substantial extension, far left, at the western end of the south front.) This event was to usher in the most significant upheaval in the family estate for 250 years, a development not unconnected with the intellectual (and neurotic) preoccupations of Audley’s son and heir, Roger.

The disabled older brother of Roger Money-Kyrle (1898-1980) had died shortly before Roger was born, his father passing suddenly when he was ten. ‘My mother, a recognized beauty still in her forties, remained a widow. [They] were devoted to each other and the love and kindness I received from them made the later discovery of my Oedipus complex a very lengthy process.’10

see source

A fighter pilot shot down in the Great War, various psychological pressures led a demobbed Money-Kyrle to the nascent therapy of psysho-analysis whilst studying at Cambridge. (Referral to Sigmund Freud in Vienna would follow but not before he had ‘foolishly rushed off and married an older woman’, against advice.)11 Not least amongst his realizations during this time was the discovery ‘that instead of a comfortable income from two properties, I had a negative income of about £400 per annum. I then sold Homme, for which I think the older tenants never forgave me’.10

Whetham remained Money-Kyrle’s home his entire life but, despite initially acceding to expectations as squire (JP, High Sheriff), he came to realise that ‘I had no vocation for such activities’.10 After the Second World War, with two PhDs and several books already to his name, his focus turned instead to practising psycho-analysis in London (becoming a ‘highly renowned‘ figure in the profession), returning to Wiltshire on weekends.

see: Homme House

And while he had indeed sold Homme House it nevertheless remained in the family, the purchaser being his uncle, the Reverend Cecil Money-Kyrle, vicar of Much Marcle. (A great deal of the large Herefordshire landholding would be divested at this time, however.) Cecil died childless in 1962, Homme now descending via his sister’s grandson, Vice-Admiral John Ernle Pope. The house and 100+ acre park are today home to the family of the latter’s step-daughter who over the past decade have developed Grade II* listed Homme as a popular country house wedding venue…

… and who featured in Country Life (r) with their dachshunds back in 2014. This weekly magazine has been chronicling the vicissitudes of the British country house, large and small, for now well over a hundred years yet in all that time Whetham has, by contrast, entirely escaped mention. Modest in its dimensions but epic in lineage, this house and estate remain in the hands of the Money-Kyrle family, and one of the longest-held, least-heralded ancestral inheritances in the land…

Startling plot twists and fairytale endings, staple elements of the standard popular novel – but sometimes truth can be stranger than fiction. Strange fiction, even. In the early hours of March 10, 2005, 74-year-old one-time romantic novelist Cherry Drummond, aka the 16th Baroness Strange, summoned two house guests to her bedside to witness a change in her will. The ailing matriarch of Megginch Castle, north of the Firth of Tay, would be abruptly subverting family expectation that all was to be inherited by Adam, the eldest of her six children, now stipulating that the entire estate should go instead to the youngest, daughter Catherine. Lady Strange died the following day.

”The new will has changed everything. It is all very confusing and quite a few people are very upset. Everything about that family is strange. Strange by name, strange by nature.”1

That there was actually anything of significance beyond the title of baron to be passed on would perhaps have pleasantly surprised Cherry’s equally idiosyncratic father. In a memoir outlining his agricultural philosophy and innovations, John Drummond, 15th Lord Strange, had held out little optimism for the future: ‘I think, probably, the end of my plan will coincide with the end of the Megginch saga. In any case, the male line of this small landowning family comes to an end with me. I have no son.”2

see: Tatler

Slightly unusually, neither estate nor title were automatically entailed upon the eldest child, while the Strange peerage is among a minority which can be passed in the female line. Cherry did in fact inherit Megginch but faced a protracted tussle with one of her two sisters for the barony, their father having apparently lead each to expect that they would accede. Despite financial inducement to favour her sister’s claim, in 1986 the abeyant title was eventually granted to Cherry Drummond, subsequently an assiduous attendee of the House of Lords (surviving the 1991 cull of hereditary peers) for the rest of her days.3

“My Lords, is the Minister aware that when apples are stored in an apple loft or shed, it is essential to lay them out carefully and then to inspect them every now and again? The rotten apples must be taken out and thrown away before they can infect the other apples. Should not the same be done with terrorists?”

“I don’t quite know how to follow the noble Baroness,” would become a familiar refrain in Parliament’s upper chamber, Lady Strange importing a unique brand of folksy wisdom (not to mention a weekly supply of cut flowers from the abundance of her Scottish garden) to their lordships’ House. But while she prized her peerage its direct association with Megginch Castle was young, post-dating that of the Drummond family itself by some 300 years.

*

’Although Megginch Castle does not present the appearance a highly defensive site today among its fine, level parks and woodlands, it was once secure indeed, islanded among spreading marshes and pools, as effective as any moat.’4 The fertile plain of the present-day Carse of Gowrie, between Dundee and Perth, belies its unpromising estuarine origins when the earliest (probably monastic) structure was erected on a rare elevated spot 50 feet above sea level.

see: Canmore

A branch of the Hay family, earls of Erroll – originators of nearby Errol Park – developed a C15 tower house subsequently incorporated within a significant expansion of 1575 by Robert Hay. Characteristic corbelling supports the watch-room and conical turret of this C16 block. But the Hays would not enjoy Megginch for much longer, financial exigencies obliging its mid-C17 sale to a cadet branch of another noble Scottish clan, the Drummonds, earls of Perth [see previous post: Drummond Castle, Perth].

see: Bing Maps

Having removed from their traditional fiefdom of Lennoch 45 miles west, during the time of purchaser John Drummond’s son and grandson Megginch would be enlarged, becoming an L-shaped house. The family’s sphere of influence also expanded as the grandson, John Drummond, became MP for Perthshire (1727-34) in the interest of James Murray, 2nd Duke of Atholl, 7th Baron Strange (who would later marry Drummond’s daughter, Jean). ‘John sent his children by boat from Dundee to be educated in Holland. They absorbed some Dutch ideas and translated them to Scotland.’ One result was the Beech Walk – one of several tree-lined avenues at Megginch – planted c.1750 by Adam Drummond, 4th laird.2

When his father died in 1752 Adam was in America furthering a military career which had begun – controversially for a Drummond – fighting the Hanoverian cause in the Jacobite rebellion of 1745. Upon his return, marriage to a daughter of the 4th duke of Bolton oiled a passage into parliament where Drummond soon put his service experience to commercial use, forming a partnership which gained lucrative contracts to supply victuals to the naval fleet in the Americas. Tacking and trimming with changes of administration, valuable New World land and mineral rights followed but his business reputation would be dented when he turned his hand to banking.

Founded in 1769, Ayr Bank ‘was to provide one of the most dramtatic incidents in the history of European banking’. A private operation founded upon the ‘seemingly limitless credit’ of blue chip Scottish landowners, Ayr Bank ‘was a most obliging source of funds’ for increasingly fanciful property schemes at home and abroad. But when an allied banking house went under the domino effect quickly exposed Ayr’s speculative dealings and it too collapsed in 1772. Facing unlimited liabilities ‘many of the landowning families had to sell up’ yet Adam Drummond appears to have survived relatively unscathed.5

Indeed, three years later he would be invited by Thomas Coutts to replace Coutts’ incapacitated brother as partner in his private London bank. The recently-widowed Drummond lived on the bank’s premises on the Strand but before too long Coutts concluded that money management was not the Scotsman’s metier. Requesting his resignation in 1780, Thomas Coutts would later recall his erstwhile partner as ‘a useless incumberance’.6

see: Simon Forder

Generally, ‘the fourth laird preferred London life, Megginch being somewhat neglected’ during his tenure.7 Dying childless in 1786, his heir was nephew John Drummond who promptly sold off the ancestral Lennoch lands in favour of developing Megginch Castle to which a transverse, bow-ended drawing room wing would be added. ‘Unsubstantiated tradition alleges that this was the work of Robert Adam. The now-reconstituted ceiling was certainly good enough to be by him.’8 But as funds again became stretched Drummond now elected to sell Megginch itself, the buyer being his younger and considerably wealthier brother, Robert.

see: Craig Frew

see: Sandy Stevenson

In the grounds of the castle a hexagonal dovecote is topped by a ship weathervane commemorating the ‘General Elliott’, the vessel which intrepid East Indiaman Robert Drummond had captained to Bombay in then record time. Having invested £29,335. 16s. 4½d. of his trading fortune acquiring the family estate Drummond had soon set about adding some visual flourishes.7 The dovecote would be surrounded a striking stable range with neat Gothick fenestration; this fashion also informed the north lodge which these days abuts the A91 (see below) and a folly arch at the end of his uncle’s Beech Walk.

see: Google Maps

Paintings by fashionable portraitist George Romney now adorned the castle walls, Drummond paying 25gns upfront for his own at the first sitting. It would take a dozen sittings for the artist to capture a satisfactory likeness of Robert’s mother (‘a large number for a work this plain’) and a remarkable 17 sitttings for a portrait of his sister. ‘It must be supposed that Miss Drummond or her mother, or both, were difficult clients.’9

The one member of the family Romney did not encounter was Drummond’s brother, Adam, who became the third sibling to succeed as laird of Megginch when Robert died childless aged 50 in 1815. A year earlier Admiral (as he would later become) Adam Drummond had stepped back from a lively, full-time naval career spanning more than three decades. With his wife, Charlotte Murray, daughter of the 4th duke of Atholl (and 9th baron Strange), he now set about making significant alterations at Megginch.

see: Canmore (annotated)

see: Nichola Dawson

A large armorial tablet records their further development of the bow-ended Georgian south wing (↑) including ‘an off-centre Roman Doric portico [see], removed in 1928′.10 In the north and east a new L-shaped two-storey wing now wrapped around the C16th block.

Following the admiral’s death in 1849 his eldest son Capt. John Drummond’s tenure as laird lasted forty years but perhaps the most singular legacy of this era was that created by his younger brother, Henry Drummond-Hay. Remembered as ‘a noble specimen of the true field naturalist’, a peripatetic military career enabled Henry to assemble ‘one of the largest ornithological collections in the country’, hundreds of species of European bird life all personally shot, stuffed and mounted, most of which remain in the billiard room at Megginch. (Drummond-Hay himself would retire to Seggieden House, just ten miles down the road, having married its heiress and added her family name.)

see: Carsesus.org

Meanwhile, Henry’s brother and sister-in-law made their mark in the Castle gardens. ‘The outstanding historical value of the designed landscape at Megginch is in its great age and the continuity of gardening by the Drummond family since the C17.’ Arboreally, 1000-year-old yews face competition as king of the trees hereabouts from the oldest Giant Redwoods in Britain (r), cultivated from Californian seeds supplied by a C19th neighbour, pioneering grower and evolutionary theorist Patrick Matthew.

see: GardenVisit.com

‘The top walled garden created c.1575 is still in use, its brick walls harbouring figs and nectarines,’ while the orchard at Megginch is home to a national collection of cider apples and pears. Capt. Drummond’s wife Mary was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria and amongst the quirky topiary ‘is an extraordinary crown-shaped yew (left) planted to commemorate the monarch’s golden jubilee and concealing a delightfully gloomy chamber within’.11

Son Malcolm succeeded in 1889, marrying Geraldine, a daughter of Lord Amherst of Hackney the following year. Their children would enjoy summers at the latter’s country seat, Didlington Hall in Norfolk, in the halcyon years just prior to the discovery of the calamitous embezzlement of that estate by Amherst’s trusted solicitor (see also: Narford Hall, Norfolk). And the prospects were also none too rosy at Megginch when John Drummond eventually came into the estate in 1929.

‘I inherited a bag full of moonshine. I knew, of course, that we were broke. I had found the place slightly more dilapidated every time I came home, but no-one seemed unduly worried. Things went downhill but they went on as if there was no bottom to the hill.‘2

see: Hillandale News

Being ‘by some way the largest farmer in the district’, Drummond committed, in the face of sceptical counsel, to a belief that the Carse of Gowrie held more promise than the socio-economic landscape, introducing forward-thinking farm practices. Despite an Etonian upbringing which ‘fitted me to be nothing more than a good sport’, John Drummond had many strings to his bow.2 A some-time novelist and restaurateur, his most unlikely estate enterprise was Great Scott Records, one of the earliest record labels outside of London, established in 1933. With a roster of local talent, ‘most of the recordings were made in the great hall at the castle and the manufacturing carried out in a factory in the stable buildings’.

When the 9th duke of Atholl died unmarried in May 1957 his subordinate Strange barony fell into abeyance; John Drummond’s claim to be the 15th Lord Strange would be ratified seven years later. Alas, not long after Megginch gained this added distinction it would be writing a rather less welcome (and only too familiar) chapter in its country house story, ie. The Year of the Ruinous Blaze. Being 1969, when much of the interior of the south wing was lost or damaged. But over time the cupola-lit stair hall and Adamesque ceilings would be reconstituted while many fixtures would be replaced with pieces from other local historic houses.

‘The restoration was a magnificent act of faith by Cherry Drummond and her husband, Humphrey, who had moved in with their large family only a few years before.’7 But this episode possibly strained the already marginal economic position at Megginch and by the late 1980s the estate was in a ‘financial mess’. Enter a fairy godfather with a nearby castle of his own.

see: Press&Journal

‘Sir James Cayzer, 5th Bt., had inherited vast wealth derived from the shipping business founded by his great-grandfather and devoted most of his life to entertaining himself and friends in the style of a bygone age.’ Cayzer owned Kinpurnie Castle and his largesse would extend to his friends 20 miles south at Megginch when circumstances obliged the sale of a 330-acre farm. ‘Rather than let the estate be broken up,’ Sir James stepped in, buying the property and promptly gifting it to the Drummonds’ eldest son, Adam…12

… today the 17th Baron Strange, and perceived to have been the principal ‘victim’ of his mother’s dramatic change of heart in her last hours. Of his five siblings, the best placed to summon a degree of equanimity in the fallout of the great 2005 will revision was perhaps middle sister Amelie – or, as she was by then more formally known, the Duchesse de Magenta. Rewind twenty years:

‘Dressed in a crinoline gown spangled with gold, leaning against the wall of a ballroom in a vast house, she spotted someone starring at her. Across the room was a tall lean man wearing a daffodil-yellow tailcoat with red velvet collar and cuffs, full white tie and hunting boots. In his hand was a silver-topped malacca cane. Moments later they were chatting and a few moments after that Amelie decided she was talking to the man she would one day marry.’13

see: Julliieen@Instagram

Amelie Drummond is today chatelaine of splendiferous Chateau de Sully in the Loire Valley, with its ‘moat, wonderful state rooms and premier cru vineyards’.13 Her husband Philippe, 4th Duc de Magenta, died in 2002; ‘since 2012 she has been able to call on her sister Charlotte Drummond to help with the running of the estate.’ And there’s probably no better preparation for managing a castle than being raised in one. Perhaps the pair compare notes with their younger sibling, Catherine, present mistress of Megginch?

see: Irina Tolubenko

Doubtless it’s not all a bed of roses (though the gardens at Megginch do contain over 100 varieties of such, some centuries old) but Handed on would like to imagine that the words of the Drummond sisters’ grandfather, John, may to some extent still pertain:

‘I realised .. that I was brought up in a fairytale and was still living in one.’